The Secret Life
by dark-hearted rose
Summary: [[Now complete, but with the planned addition of two more pieces in the future.]] A series of separate yet intertwined oneshots designed to answer a few questions about the characters in The Phantom of the Opera. 2004 movie. Rated for some language.
1. Christine

**Alright, so this is a little something that is the result of a rather entertaining conversation i had with my friend Marilyn yesterday after school. This is the first of a series of I'm not sure how many vignettes meant to answer some questions i and some other people had...enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: once again, no matter how much i wish i did, i have no rights to _The Phantom of the Opera_. drat.**

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Christine: _Is she really as innocent as everyone believes?_

She couldn't believe her luck: a whole afternoon off! By the third time the set was sent plummeting to the stage, M. Reyer had just about had a heart-attack. Throwing up his hands in defeat, he stalked off and soon proceeded to lock himself in his office, thereby effectively ending the rehearsal. Good thing, too; here eardrums couldn't take much more of the outraged shrieks being emitted constantly by the overly-dramatic La Carlotta. Even a block away from the Opera House she could still hear it: a high pitched, yet mercifully muffled wail.

She looked back at the great hulking mass of a building; though she'd already had her lesson, she wished she were in her dressing room, talking with her Angel. She vaguely wondered if he knew of her suddenly free afternoon, but was brought back at a sharp tug on her arm.

"Christine!" whined Meg. "You promised you'd go with me!"

"What? Oh, yes. Lead the way."

Ah, yes; the new museum Meg had been chattering about for the past two weeks. Where on _earth_ her friend had gotten such an insatiable thirst for art she wasn't about to guess, so she allowed herself to be led about through the streets of Paris while people threw odd glances in their direction.

She looked around her with an expression of schooled innocence, but feeling overwhelming disdain—that is, until she saw a certain someone's family crest marking one of the ornate carriages coming up the street.

"Shit! It's Raoul! Hide!" she hissed, grabbing Meg's arm and hurrying to lose themselves in the crowd.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the carriage passed without incident. Why that man still insisted on looking for her when she'd clearly told him no over five years ago baffled her. _Talk about "freaky stalker"_, she thought.

"Here it is!" squealed Meg, pushing open a door to her right and sprinting inside, practically mowing down an elderly couple on their way out.

_Oh, joy._

She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The interior was unlike anything she'd ever seen before; certainly nothing like a museum at all. The space was far too cramped, the lights far too dim, but she found herself being drawn inexorably further into its depths.

She looked around; there in a corner stood a strange-looking sculpture, composed, it seemed, completely out of random hunks of metal. But there: a face that stared out at her from the wall behind the sculpture; a face so totally foreign yet completely familiar it made her blood run cold; _hers_.

Entranced, she made her way over, taking care not to brush against the sculpture as she positioned herself to get a better look at the painting.

She got gooseflesh just looking at it. How vividly she remembered those nights spent in that small, dimly-lit studio, remembered the feel of the flowing red silk draped around her body as she posed for the strange man sitting on the stool in the darkest corner, refusing to talk to her in anything above a hoarse whisper or remove the traveler's cloak that he kept himself shrouded in, the hood pulled up so that his face was bathed in continual shadow.

She smiled wryly as she wondered what Mme. Giry or Meg—or her Angel—would think if they knew of this new occupation. Pure mortification, no doubt. But still…it paid well, and God knew it was so much more exhilarating than parading about the stage on your toes.

"Wow, that's _beautiful_."

Christine jumped. Looking around, she saw Meg beside her, admiring the painting.

Meg looked at her thoughtfully. "She kind of looks like you, Christine."

"Don't be silly, Meg."

"No, really! Look at it!"

Christine sighed, feigning a preoccupied, impatient air. "We should probably start heading back. M. Reyer might be ready for another go; besides, we're not supposed to be out in the first place."

It was Meg's turn to sigh. "You're right, let's go." She turned to leave and made her way around the sculpture. "What an ugly pile of junk," she said, regarding the piece with an expression of disgust.

Christine smiled.

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**please review! i'll love you forever:D**


	2. Phantom

**ooh, i love not having reviews...**

**so yeah...this one's much more parody-ish. it was inspired by this one forum i was watching for a while, complaining about Gerik; more specifically, how tan he was when he's supposedly a recluse living underground his whole life. Don't get me wrong...i'm in LOVE with Gerik...but i couldn't pass this up...teehee.**

**disclaimer: alas, I don't own _The Phantom of the Opera_... _(sigh)_ or Gerik... _(pouts)_ if only the world were less cruel...**

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Phantom: _How'd he get to be so tan?_

He smiled maliciously as a terrified shriek cut through the surrounding noise, people suddenly scurrying both above and below him, struggling to return the elaborate—and heavy—canvas backdrop to its normal upright position in the air instead of in a crumpled heap onstage, the leading soprano beneath it. _I'll never get tired of that…_

Picking his way through the delicate wooden platforms, he eventually reached a stone wall. He pushed, observing as the secret door swiveled to let him pass, the opening swallowing him up as he made his way over the threshold and the door closed behind him, rendering the darkness complete.

Oh, but how he hated the darkness! Though most light was far too intense—he preferred candles—anything was better than that profound lack of it that served as a constant reminder as to the blackness of his very soul.

He walked quickly down the corridor, and soon he came to the large open chamber, a feeble light shining from the end of the underground canal.

He located the sleek little boat and stepped inside, picking up the heavy stick and thrusting with all his might against the stone barrier, sending the black gondola skirting over the liquid night beneath him, the curtain of mist hanging over the water parting as he passed.

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_Why am I even doing this?_ she asked herself, suddenly grinning. _Oh well…_

Further down she descended, practically flying down the stone stairway. Not unlike her ballet girls, she intended to take as much advantage of the sudden break in rehearsal as she could.

Her mind was so preoccupied that she almost forgot about the trapdoor on the fifth landing. Coming to a stop abruptly, she stepped forward and to her left gingerly, her back against the wall as she skirted the edge of the door that would send her God-only-knew-where if she happened to step on it.

Down, down, down she went…_aha! Here we are…_

The overwhelming light of the candles nearly blinded her after spending so much time in darkness. She stood on the water's edge, looking around. _Where was he?_

_Wait…what was that on the water…?_

_"ERIK?"_

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He jumped, startled by the noise; to his mortification, the gondola tipped over and deposited him in the cold waters of the lake.

He came up, sputtering curses, looking over at none other than Madame Giry, standing over on the far shore—doubled over in hysterical laughter.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, treading water.

"I'd ask the same of you," she finally gasped as her laughter slowly abated.

He blushed, for once in his life cursing the fact that his mask didn't cover his entire face.

"Honestly…" Giry continued on mercilessly. "Tanning? In _candlelight_!"

"Atleastitworks," he muttered under his breath.

Madame Giry laughed again. "Oh, God…you're hopeless…" She turned to head back the way she came, still chuckling softly.

Embarrassed beyond belief, he stopped treading water and simply let his head sink, the water hiding him from the world.

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**reviews would be nice...heck, i'll even take flames. and it's not often that i'll openly admit to that...**

**- dark-hearted rose**


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